Coming Home
by abbosaurous
Summary: John cannot handle Sherlock's death any longer and decides to take maters into his own hands.


Coming Home

John Watson stood next to the window and peered out in the rainy London background. Storms were rushing in and the sky seemed to darken with every passing moment. Sighing, John turned away from the window; the weather seemed to finalize his decision he had made that morning. Today was the day.

He looked around the flat, which was almost empty. After Sherlock died, John put all of his things in the storage closet in the back. All the body parts were properly disposed of, all of it cleaned out of the old refrigerator. He organized all of Sherlock's microscopes and half finished "experiments" that didn't involve dead body parts, into boxes. "For _science, _John." That was his excuse for everything. It used to annoy him so much, now he would give anything to hear it again.

John had given the deerstalker to Ms. Hudson, as he knew that she always loved seeing Sherlock wearing it. John also loved seeing him in it, but he knew that Ms. Hudson would cherish it and look at it, while it would have just stayed in the closet if John had kept it.

He couldn't stand looking at the things, yet he couldn't force himself to get rid of all of it. Sherlock had left everything to John, which was surprisingly, much more then John could even imagine. He had loads of money in his bank account and many brand new, very expensive shirts in his closet. Most of the shirts still had the price tags on them. Sherlock had only worn a few shirts; he had his favorites for sure.

It pained John to go into Sherlock's room now. His smell still hung in the air, even after months of him not being there. Dirty clothes lay strewn about on the floor and papers full of Sherlock's writings were still taped to the wall. On those rare occasions that John had ventured in there it still felt as if Sherlock was alive. But the cruel reality of the world always came crashing down on him the second he left the room.

Even though John could afford to go to the fanciest restaurants in all of London, he usually had Chinese takeaway. Although recently, he just couldn't get himself to eat a bite. He would put a small bit of food in his mouth and his stomach would instantly reject it. Everything tasted like poison to him. He was losing a lot of weight, and he soon found that all of his jumpers didn't fit right anymore. His jeans were too loose and he had to constantly pull his belt tighter and tighter every day. Molly had started noticing his weight loss and asked him if he was ok. To which he always replied yes.

A soldier never shows his weakness.

Today on the other hand, he didn't care if he showed just how broken he really was. Today was the day he was going to die. He couldn't live without Sherlock anymore. He had so much that he wanted to say to him, so much love he was willing to give. Yet the bastard died before John was able to tell him he loved him.

John hoped Sherlock knew, but in all seriousness, he had to. Sherlock probably deduced it the first time John ever called him "amazing". But he never got to say it out loud and to his face.

John sat down in his chair that used to face Sherlock's, but now it just faced nothing. There were marks on the floor from where Sherlock's chair had scratched the surface over time. A sob somehow managed to escape him lips, even the marks would trigger his sadness. He desperately tried to stop more from coming out, but a few escaped. After a few minutes he collected himself and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

The familiar scar brushed over his face as he did so. He got the scar when he was out on a case with Sherlock. The man they were chasing stabbed him in the arm, a long deep cut, stretching from the very beginning of his wrist to his elbow. He had been mad at himself for getting hurt. He was a soldier! A doctor maybe, but still a soldier. He should have been able to protect himself from ex- drug addicts. But Sherlock was much more furious with the convict than John was with himself. Sherlock had punched the man out cold and had quickly run over to John's side. He had lifted John up (who had gone woozy with blood loss) and carried him all the way to hospital. He had held John's hand while they stitched him up and ran his long fingers through John's short, sandy, hair when he fell asleep from the pain medicine. Sherlock had mothered John for the next week or so, always checking that the wound was clean and had not become infected.

John would do anything to get that Sherlock back.

Mycroft had visited John quite often after Sherlock had jumped. He was probably afraid that John would go and off himself like Sherlock did. Too bad he wasn't here to stop John from doing it now.

Six months.

Six months had gone by and John still couldn't even wrap his mind around what had happened. Sherlock had left him. He wasn't good enough. He knew that Sherlock would grow bored with him eventually, but he didn't know it would happen so soon.

John was never good enough.

So he was going to end it. Today.

He grabbed his coat, and made sure to carefully button up each button. He scrubbed away a few tears that had managed to escape his eyes. He slipped on his shoes lowly, making sure he was confident that this is what he wanted.

He was sure. He couldn't live in a world without his Sherlock.

At the last moment, John remembered his laptop. He quickly opened up his blog and posted his last entry.

**Goodbye.**

That's all it read. John felt like he owed it to his readers that he said farewell, he couldn't leave them without saying it.

He felt his phone buzz with notification after notification. Soon a few calls came in but it didn't stop him. He simply ignored it all.

He opened up the door and quickly left the flat. Flying down the stairs he cried out, "Goodbye, Ms. Hudson!" to which he heard no reply.

As he walked out of the building, he couldn't stop thinking about lasts.

Last time walking out of 221B.

Last time talking to Ms. Hudson.

Last time walking to the hospital.

John had spent a lot of time in St. Bartholomew's. Most of the time it had been when he was working in surgery, but still a good fair amount had been with Sherlock. He hadn't been back to it since Sherlock had jumped, but as he approached the building his eyes were instantly drawn to the spot where Sherlock had landed. There were a few cracked stones from where his body had impacted, but other than that, there was no evidence that anything had happened.

John stood in the spot, feet tapping to a tune in his head. One that Sherlock used to always play on his violin. Damn, that man could play.

Sighing, he opened up the door to the hospital. The receptionist, an older lady with tired eyes and graying hair, watched him. She was new, the old receptionist had quit after seeing Sherlock's body outside the building. John flashed his bade and she nodded, allowing him to go up the stairs.

He ran up them, going faster and faster. Six flights later, he was on the roof.

Rain had started coming down, making the surface of the roof slippery. John carefully walked to the edge. He turned back to the spot where they had found Moriarty's body. He had taken his life a few moments before Sherlock had.

And now, John would jump himself, completing this circle.

He had thought about this moment for a while now. The jump, that is. He was ready of this. Ready to escape and see his beloved once again.

He stepped onto the ledge, his toes hanging off. He looked up, seeing his beloved city once more. He spread his arms, just as Sherlock had done. He quickly remembered what he wanted his last words to be and cleared his throat.

"I'm coming home, Sherlock," he yelled as tears came streaming down his face.

And he fell.

And the last thing he saw was a tall man.

Wearing a trench coat.

With dark curly hair.

And a blue scarf.

And tears on his beautiful face.

And the last thing he heard came from a familiar voice.

The cry of this voice rang out through the city.

"John, no."

But, as the beautiful man soon realized, it was all too late.


End file.
